


Weather the Storm

by RhymeAndTreason



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon
Genre: (nothing major you'll understand even if you haven't read the manga), F/M, I did the proofreading way late at night so there are probably errors everywhere! Oh well!, Manga Elements, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhymeAndTreason/pseuds/RhymeAndTreason
Summary: Marth goes missing after a mudslide caused by a sudden storm separates him from his guards. Minerva sets out to find him.





	1. Gathering Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Be the rarepair content you want to see in the world!
> 
> Well, actually, I would prefer if somebody else was the rarepair content I want to see in the world. Reading my own writing isn't as much fun. But the writing itself is good practice, and hopefully will maybe get other people into the ship?
> 
> ... Probably not.

The crack of lightning split the sky in twain. A deafening thunderclap followed. Rain poured fiercely and unceasingly from the seemingly endless sea of black clouds. The wind howled. Mudslides and fallen trees made what little solid ground there was in the marshes below all but impassable.

No human being ought to be out in this kind of weather. It would like as not be a death sentence. Anyone who lived out here in northern Altea would know that fact well from experience. Such storms came around about at least once a year and wrought devastation. Any sane man would take shelter in his home, and remain there until the skies cleared once more.

The lone rider passing by on reptilian wings was not a man, and right now she wondered if she was truly sane. She was Minerva the Red Dragoon, Crown Princess of Macedon, and she had her reasons for taking flight on such a dismal day.

She and her sister Maria had arrived in Anri, capital of Altea, early that morning for a diplomatic visit. The trip had luckily been an uneventful one, and indeed had gone so smoothly that they had arrived a day early. As a result of that, Crown Prince Marth had not been present to greet them. He had been visiting a small town to the north for a celebration of some important historical event, and wasn’t expected back until that evening. It hadn’t been long afterwards that news had arrived of a terrible and sudden storm that, among other things, had separated Marth from his entourage. Now the prince was missing, and potentially endangered. Minerva had volunteered her aid in finding him and getting him safely home immediately and without hesitation, and was on wing within the hour.

“I’m certain you’ll find the prince unhurt,” Sir Arran had told her, “Marth knows the area and its dangers well. He will have taken shelter somewhere safe, perhaps with a local family. Still, it would give us all great peace of mind if you could find him and bring him back to us.”

And Minerva was the only one who could. Going on foot would be suicide, horseback even more so. Pegasi would be unable to navigate the storm. Only a wyvern rider could defy the tempest, and Altea had none of her own.

Astride the back of her faithful mount, she flew low to the ground. Though she had dispensed of most of her usual metal accoutrements, she was still wary of the possibility of a lightning strike. She had no desire to die here today. And in any case, she was more likely to spot her quarry from closer to the ground.

So far, however, she had had no luck. Hours spent searching in this miserable mire, torrential rain, and deathly cold, and she had nothing to show for it save several tears in her raincoat, a thick coating of mud on both herself and her mount, and a strong desire for a warm meal and a comfortable bed. She imagined that the sun was likely setting by this point, but underneath the impenetrable cloud cover, it was impossible to tell and made little difference. No sunlight could ever hope to pierce the stormclouds; the only illumination came from the lantern hanging from Minerva’s belt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of bright blue. She bade her mount to land, then quickly dismounted, so as to take a closer look. Her boots sank deep into the heavy mud, and each step closer was labored. The rain came down so thick that it was difficult to see, and her lantern could only do so much against the darkness. The wind threatened to sweep her off her feet, and the only thing keeping her hood in place was her steady grip.

“Prince Marth! Are you there?” Had she found him at last? Was it finally over? Minerva had hoped the same things the last ten times she had put her feet to the ground, and had little hope left for this time. Perhaps she should turn around, come back when the storm had passed. Perhaps there was nothing more she could do out here. But no. What if Marth was hurt, or even dying out here? Minerva would never forgive herself if that were to happen when she could have done something to save him.

There! She’d once more caught sight of the blue something, which she now recognized as a piece of torn cloth caught on a tree branch. It was a miracle the wind hadn’t blown it away.

A few more steps, and she was close enough to take it in her gloved hands. She turned it over. The other side of the cloth was red, the same as Marth’s cape. This, then, was likely a piece of that cape. But where was its owner? He had to be somewhere nearby. There was no way _anyone_ could have gotten far in this morass.

Minerva took her lantern into her hands and raised it into the air.

“Prince Marth!” She called out, “Prince Marth! Are you there?” But, alas, she received no response. The only sounds were the wind and deafening rain. Even if he had been nearby, it wasn’t very likely that she’d have heard him over that cacophony – or that he’d have heard her.

With a sigh, she hooked the lantern back onto her belt, then turned to climb back on her wyvern and take to the air once more. If she simply circled the area, she was sure that she would find Marth in short order. Assuming, of course, that he wasn’t already dead and buried beneath the mud. No. No. She had to believe that he was still out there somewhere. She could not countenance the idea that Prince Marth of Altea, the Star and Saviour, the legendary hero who had freed the continent from Dolhr’s vile clutches, was dead. She simply could not. She refused to accept the possibility that the man she-

Minerva shook her head. No, no more thinking about that. It was pointless and only served to distract.

Her wyvern beat its massive wings and lifted into the air. It was most fortunate that unlike pegasi, wyverns weren’t bothered overmuch by the rain. On the other hand, it was most _un_ fortunate that the cold was making her reptilian companion tired and sluggish.

It wouldn’t be much longer. She’d soon find Marth, and then they could be home, warm and dry.

Another bolt of lightning struck. Somewhere nearby, judging by how closely the thunderclap followed. It took a moment for Minerva’s ears to stop ringing.

The fire in her lantern sputtered, but stayed lit. It seemed even enchanted fire cast by Sir Merric had its limits, and now the fire in her lantern was approaching them. She had no idea how long she’d been flying, exactly, and no way of knowing how close it was to the end of the flame’s lifespan as promised to her by its maker. Minerva could only hope it would be long enough to find Marth.

It was then that she noticed something that she hadn’t before. A tiny, weak light in the distance. She could not make out what it was, but it seemed wise to investigate.

As she flew closer, the source of the light gradually became clearer. A building of some sort, atop a hill. A house - no, an inn. It was an old building, but weathering the storm remarkably well. It had clearly been built by someone who was used to northern Altea’s storms and knew well how to withstand them. Perhaps Marth had taken shelter there. If nothing else, it was possible that someone there had seen him and could direct her towards him.

Minerva landed her wyvern before the inn’s front door with as much delicateness as could be wrung out of a massive reptilian beast and dismounted. She took a moment to rub the top of the creature’s head and thank it for its service. Just because it was an animal did not mean that it was any less miserable than she was, especially after having been flying through the storm for hour after hour.

Just as she was reaching out to open the door, a sharp pain shot through her side, and she doubled over, cursing under her breath. An old wound from the War of Shadows that had never quite healed properly. Most of the time, however, it posed no problem and was simple to ignore. Why did it have to act up here and now? Her only consolation was that the mad mage who had given her the wound was long dead. Damn Klaus. She only regretted that she had not been the one to kill him.

Minerva grit her teeth, and forced herself to stand despite the pain. She would not allow herself the luxury of collapsing in pain until she could be sure that Marth was safe.

She reached out with one unsteady hand, and twisted the doorknob. Locked. Steadying her arm, she reached out again and knocked.

Then she waited.

After a few moments of nothing, she knocked again, more insistently. A moment later, the click of a lock heralded the opening of the door.

She locked eyes with a pot-bellied, aging man, whose eyes widened at the sight of Minerva. It was understandable, really. She was quite a mess. She imagined that she probably looked more like some kind of mud-wrought monster than a human being.

Before Minerva even had a chance to explain her intentions, she was ushered into the inn, seated at a table, and promised food. She tried to interject that she had come here looking for someone, but was simply shushed and told to wait until after she was warm and dry. All attempts to object went unheard.

Sighing, Minerva doffed her coat and reclined slightly in her seat. The man – the innkeeper, apparently - had already disappeared, gone into the kitchen to acquire food for the weary traveller. Would he expect payment? Probably. Altea had a generally generous culture, but she had never known a businessman to pass up a chance to make some coin. Well, that was no trouble at all, for she had plenty of money.

She took a moment to survey the area. The dining room was full of men and women trapped there by the storm. Most were quietly biding their time, while some were grumbling into mugs of beer, and others offered prayers to the Twelve Gods that they would safely see the end of the storm. Most looked to be from other parts of Altea, or perhaps Gra, likely in town for the same celebration that Marth had been attending. Others wore the faces and clothes of other cultures – a few Archaneans in their ostentatious clothes, some rough-dressed Talysians, a noble-looking Aurelian, and even two fur-clad frontiersmen. Minerva could not begin to guess at the reasons for their presences. Travellers of some kind, certainly, but their reasons and their destinations were enigmatic, and she would just as soon leave it that way. She was content to remain ignorant, feeling that just as she would prefer to be left to her own devices, so too would they.

Unconsciously, she laid a hand on her side, where her wound still pained her, and grit her teeth. It hurt a little less now than it had outside, though. Perhaps the blessed warmth had done some good.

Minerva closed her eyes. God, but she was exhausted. If she could’ve, she would’ve rented a room and crawled into bed right that very second, but finding Marth had to be her first priority. She still felt sorely tempted to do it anyway. At the very least, she could make the concession of getting a hot meal in her belly before she set out again. That would be fine, would it not?

Perhaps afterwards she ought to go calling in the local villages. If Marth could not be found in the wilderness, he might be-

“Princess Minerva!?” Gasped a familiar voice, cutting across her thoughts like a knife, “What are you doing here? … Wait, are you hurt!?”

Minerva’s bleary eyes blinked open and turned to see the one speaking to her.

And there he was. Prince Marth of Altea, entering the room from the adjoining kitchen. He wore an apron, and carried with him a large bowl of some kind of stew. He rushed toward her, nearly spilled the stew all over the floor, and walked mindfully for the remaining half of the distance.

“No… no, I’m alright. Old wounds, that’s all,” Minerva assured Marth. He set the bowl down in front of her and gave her a concerned glance, but said nothing.

“As for why I’m here… Well, I came to find you. When we received word that you had been separated from your guards in a rainstorm, I worried that you might be hurt, so I set out to rescue you. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you’re safe. But… if I may ask… how did you come to be _here_? And working the kitchen, no less!”

“For me? I’m grateful, but you really needn’t’ve gone to so much effort for my sake. It can’t have be worth all the toil and trouble you must’ve been through. I mean, look at you! I don’t mean to be rude, but you look… well, awful. What happened to you out there? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Minerva laughed a throaty, slightly wheezing laugh.

“I’ve just been tumbling about in the muck and rain for far too long, really. I’m not hurt at all. And don’t sell yourself short like that, Marth. Your safety is worth more than I could ever give. Now, I don’t believe you answered my question, did you?”

“Ah, yes,” Marth said, looking suitably bashful, “well, after I got separated from Cain and the others, I was stumbling around lost for some time, but luckily I came across this inn, and the owner was kind enough to take me in. He said that I needn’t pay him back, but I insisted, and while he still refuses to accept any money, he has accepted my service. So… here I am. I’m sorry that you went to so much effort for my sake, when I was safe and dry the entire time.” The apologetic look on Marth’s face annoyed Minerva. The damn fool was always like this.

“Oh, don’t apologise. What if something _had_ happened to you? I never would have been able to live with myself if I thought I could’ve saved you. And if I hadn’t come looking, I’d have been sick to death with worry until you returned. It matters not one bit if you really were hurt or not. Besides, just being able to see you safe and sound with my own eyes does my heart no end of good. You’re…” Minerva trailed off. She had never been good with emotions and was even worse with talk of them. Saying this was difficult for her. “… precious to me. To many people. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Marth smiled at that, and all the annoyance Minerva had built up vanished. That damn smile…

“Well, I, um, I’m flattered! Thank you for your kind words, Minerva. Now, you’d best eat up before that stew gets cold. I’m sure you’ll appreciate a nice warm meal after being out in the storm so long!” Marth said, gesturing towards the bowl, “You rode your wyvern here, didn’t you? I’ll make go and make sure he gets safely into the stables for the night.”

“Hold on. For the night?” Minerva raised an eyebrow. She had no intention of staying that long. Marth, however, was already at the door.

“Yes, of course! Do you really expect me to let you go back out there in that condition? You’re getting a good night’s rest before we leave… And no protesting!” And with that, Marth donned a coat and stepped out the door, leaving Minerva no opportunity to argue.

Did she really look that bad? Well, there was no way to argue with someone who wasn’t there, so Minerva turned to the stew he had given her and began to eat. As she spooned the beef, potatoes, and broth into her mouth, she began to notice that she was feeling far more tired than she had realized. Now that she had stopped for a moment, all the exertion was catching up with her.

Minerva yawned loudly, and was mortified. A few people turned to look, briefly, before turning back to whatever they were doing. No one, it seemed, particularly cared.

Perhaps Marth had a point about staying the night. This suddenly all-consuming lethargic feeling… Minerva hoped that she hadn’t come down with some kind of sickness. _That_ would be quite an unfortunate end to this whole mess.

Still, Marth was safe. That knowledge alone was worth all the effort it had taken to get it. Knowing it gladdened her heart beyond all words and put her at ease. Though exhaustion made her shoulders heavy, it still felt as though a great weight had been lifted from them.

… And this stew was delicious. Had Marth made it himself? She didn’t know whether he knew how to cook or not. In any case, she would have to thank him for it. She hadn’t eaten anything since early in the day.

Minerva yawned again, more quietly. Her head felt so, so heavy all of a sudden…

When Marth returned, he found Minerva almost nodding off into her empty bowl. Smiling gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Do you want me to show you to a room? You look like you’re asleep on your feet.” He asked, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.

“… Yes, thank you.” Sighed Minerva, relenting to the idea of staying the night, as she accepted Marth’s proffered hand with one of hers and rubbing her eyes with the other.

They walked slowly and in silence around a corner, down a hallway, and up a flight of stairs to the inn’s second floor. Minerva, peering down the two hallways that stretched out from the landing, noted that there were fewer rooms than she would have expected. The rooms were in fact fewer in number than the people she had seen on the ground floor. Was there even space for her? Accounting for people who would room together and the possibility of people already abed, she doubted there was a room free.

Before she could voice her concerns, Marth began to speak.

“You know, I’ve always admired you, Minerva. Would that I could be more like you are!”

Minerva’s entire train of thought was completely derailed by this bolt-from-the-blue statement.

“Me? But why? Surely, a hero like you…” Through the fog of her exhaustion-addled mind, she was most puzzled. She could not think of a single way in which she outshone Marth. None that mattered, at least.

“You’re so much _stronger_ than I am, Minerva. In fact, you’re the strongest person I know. But me, I’m not strong at all. I have always relied on the strength of others, rather than standing on my own. Look at today, for instance – were it not for the kindness of the innkeeper, I might well have died out there in the tempest. And you! … You were out there in the mud and wind and rain and cold for hours on end… all for my sake. All because I was imperiled.”

“I… you aren’t…” Minerva knew that Marth was wrong, that he was as strong as she was. Stronger, even. She wanted nothing more than to tell him so, but her somnolent brain could not string together the words to explain why, no matter how hard she tried. Instead, fractured sentences punctuated by yawns stumbled out of her mouth.

Marth seemed to understand what she was trying to say, but aside of a sad smile, he did not acknowledge it.

“I’m sorry. You don’t want to listen to me ramble about my weakness,” was all he said.

He walked ahead, and pushed open the door at the furthest end of one hallway, before beckoning Minerva to enter.

The room seemed cozy enough. A well-kept bed stood beneath a window on the far side, with a little table beside it. There was an oil lamp on the bedside table, but it was unlit, leaving the room mostly in darkness. In one corner stood an open closet, inside of which hung… Marth’s cape?

“I’m sorry, there aren’t any free rooms, so we’ll have to share.”

“How… unchivalrous,” Minerva smiled wryly. The effect was slightly ruined by the yawn that came immediately after.

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry. I’ll sleep on the floor. There are some spare blankets I can borrow. You know me well enough to know that I would never do anything untoward to you, surely?”

Minerva mulled that over for a minute and despite, or perhaps because of, her somnolence, came to a decision.

“No,” She said.                                                      

“What?” Marth’s eyes widened.

“The bed is large enough for the both of us. There’s…” Minerva interrupted herself to yawn, “There’s no reason that you should have to sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, you meant…!” Marth looked relieved, “No, no, I will be fine on the floor. A man like me climbing into bed with a woman might be a little untoward, don’t you think?”

“Not if you don’t make it so,” said Minerva in a tone that, despite the drowsy slur, brooked no disagreement.

Marth disagreed anyway.

“No, no, I couldn’t…”

“Hmph,” huffed Minerva. Marth was bashful to a fault, and she found it irksome. Minerva had lived as a soldier in a harsh and mountainous land, and had little care for modesty compared to practicality – though she might have thought twice about it had she been more wakeful. Rather than continue to argue, however, she began to strip off her clothes in preparation for bed. Her movements were sluggish, but the process was still quick enough. First her coat was hung somewhat haphazardly in the closet, and it was followed shortly by her shirt and trousers, which left her in only her underclothes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marth flush fiercely and look away.

Now that she was prepared for sleep, she walked over to Marth, wrapped an arm firmly around his waist, and forcibly hauled him into bed with her. He protested the whole way, but did not struggle, for he knew that he had no chance of breaking Minerva’s grip. He had said it himself only a scant few minutes ago, that he could never hope to match Minerva’s strength.

“There is no reason you should have to sleep on the cold hard floor when there is a perfectly good bed right here,” She flatly declared.

Her hold on Marth did not loosen at all as she dragged him into bed and pulled the blankets over top of them. By this point, Marth had quite given up resisting and had resolved to simply maintain his dignity as best as he could and fall into slumber as soon as possible.

Minerva smiled. This was quite a petty example in the grand scheme of things, but sometimes, Marth’s self-sacrificing nature was troubling. Always so determined to place others first that he sometimes forgot to place himself at all. It was a good thing he was surrounded by friends who would be sure to see to it that he took care of himself. A role Minerva was more than happy to fill.

Her last conscious thought as she almost instantly drifted into the sleep of the just was that Marth’s face, already beautiful, was made all the more so when graced by the serene expression it wore in repose.

Marth, however, had not yet reached the sandman’s arms - though with his eyes tightly shut and his breathing carefully forced to be even, he was certainly trying. Minerva’s grip had not slackened in the least, despite her slumber, and so he was trapped uncomfortably close to her.

He was painfully aware that if Minerva pulled him any closer, his face would end up right between her breasts, and he tried very hard not to think about that. Unfortunately, other unwelcome thoughts invaded his mind instead. For instance, _“what, really, are my feelings toward Minerva?”_ He had called it admiration, but the way his heart fluttered when she was near spoke of other, deeper feelings. This was the first time he had seen her since the War of Shadows, and emotions that had been buried in wartime fountained forth in peacetime.

It was no surprise that he felt _something_ towards Minerva; she was a heroic figure. A woman of strength and steel, of conviction and purpose, and she let nothing stand in her way. Her heart sometimes seemed hardened and bitter, for she carried such sadness in that heart, but beneath the surface she was one of the most loving people Marth knew. And she was… so beautiful, Marth thought. Not in the classical way, but a way of her own. She was tall and muscular, far moreso than he was, and she was covered in scars. To some, that might have been a blemish, but to Marth it was the most beautiful thing about her. Her scars were the physical proof of everything she had given and all the pain she had taken for the sake of her ideals and for the sake of her country and for the sake of those she loved.

He could not help but wonder what it might be like, to sleep like this every night. Held safe in Minerva’s strong arms, kept warm by the heat of her body. Wouldn’t it be so wonderful?

It felt like it must be love. But was it true love, or a passing infatuation? Was it simply intense admiration that he had mistaken for something else?

And, even if it was love he felt, could it ever be reciprocated? Minerva had long been a friend and trusted ally to Marth. Had she ever desired to be something else? Would she? And even if she were to become his lover, could he be sure it wasn’t merely political? Much of the continent revered him as a hero, and Macedon’s precarious place in the world meant it was always happy to have strong or influential allies. Did he actually think Minerva was capable of such duplicity? No, of course not. But anxiety was rarely a logical thing…

In spite of his worries, Marth’s consciousness eventually faded into the peaceful black.

* * *

 

Downstairs, the innkeeper smiled slyly to himself. After the prince and his lady friend had disappeared upstairs and failed to come back down, he had reached a logical – albeit completely incorrect – conclusion about just what was happening up there, in the privacy of their shared room.


	2. Under the Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Minerva falls ill and is a terrible patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really not satisfied with this chapter. It feels to me like nothing happened, no progress was made. But I don't know how to fix that, so I'll just get it out and work on making the next one better.
> 
> ... Oh, yeah, also, I'm not dead! Just started university and that plus my ADD made it difficult to get a whole lot of writing done.
> 
> Just like the last chapter, I proofread this pretty late at night, so be aware of that. Also, this chapter introduces a minor OC and gives a name to the innkeeper. They won't be particularly important. Don't mind them.

Minerva awoke the next morning to darkness, howling wind, and a strange pressure against her chest. Or what she assumed was morning, at least. The storm hadn't passed, and the thick clouds made it difficult to tell where in the sky the sun was – or even if it was in the sky at all.

At first, she was confused, as one often is upon waking up in an unfamiliar bed. After a moment, however, the grogginess that clouded her mind began to fade, if only slightly, and she remembered the events that had lead up to this.

Her cheeks reddened slightly. Had she not been so tired, had she been thinking a little bit more clearly, she might have hesitated a little before dragging Marth into bed with her. Or at least she might have found some kind of nightdress to wear (although admittedly, from where, she had no idea), rather than hugging Marth against her mostly-naked body.

Speaking of that…

Minerva looked downwards, and at last she realized what the pressure she had been feeling was. Rather than, as she had assumed, loosening when she fell asleep, her grip on Marth had only tightened, and at some point in the night she had, unconsciously, pulled him quite tightly against her body. To the point where his face was buried in her chest, in fact.

The red colour that lightly dusted her cheeks deepened a little.

Carefully and quietly, so as not to wake the still-sleeping prince, she extricated her arm from around him and pulled herself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

She glanced over her shoulder out the window, and worried. It was hard to tell from the safety of the inn, but the storm looked to have only gotten worse as she slept. In particular, the howling wind, which had not been audible from inside last night, sounded like it might be bad enough that her wyvern wouldn't be able to safely fly. That she and Marth might be forced to stay even longer than they had planned, which was already longer than Minerva had initially planned, was a concern.

Rather than dwell on that, she turned her gaze on Marth, and saw that he was smiling happily in his sleep. It took some effort not to snort at that.

"Having pleasant dreams of soft things, are you…?" Minerva softly muttered.

Still, the smile was infectious, and looking at the serenely sleeping prince was calming, so Minerva couldn't help but smile softly herself. Right now, Marth seemed so small, so fragile. Like a glass figure that would be shattered if she were too incautious around it. And yet, there he was, smiling in his sleep, without a care in the world.

She could not help but wonder what it might be like, to wake like this every morning. Opening her eyes to Marth's wonderful smile, knowing that the man she loved was happy and safe. It couldn't be anything but wonderful.

And, yes, she was in love with him. She wasn't afraid to admit that to herself. Marth was a hero. A knight in shining armour and a charming prince, like something out of the fairy-stories Minerva had never had the time or patience for as a child. He was charismatic and beautiful and  _oh_  so kind; his strength of heart was unmatched by any. In Minerva's mind, Marth represented everything she wished to be, and never could. She was stony, warlike, and unkind where he was open-hearted, idealistic, and charismatic. He was a man of peace who would surely go on to even greater things in the future, and she, a woman of war who would, with any luck, never see another battle.

She'd never admit aloud that she loved Marth, however. Marth had so much boundless love in his heart, but not the kind Minerva sought from him. Minerva knew full well that Marth loved her, but only in the way Marth loved all of his friends. And she didn't even deserve that, if she was being honest.

No, it was for the best she kept her silence. To break that silence would only lead to broken hearts. Hers, for being rejected by her love, and Marth's, because of his thrice-damned empathy. His heart would break for hers; it would tear him up inside to wound her like that, but he neither could he ever falsely claim to love someone.

So she would be content to merely stand behind him. Support him. Fight for him. Bleed, kill, or die for him, if need be. She would protect him, protect his happiness. That was as close as she would ever need.

Or, at least, that was what Minerva had convinced herself would happen to justify her own reticence.

Behind her, there was a stirring and groaning. While she had been staring at the wall, lost in thought, Marth had awoken.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Greeted Minerva, raising her voice a little to be heard over the wind.

"Ah… Good morning, Minerva. Yes, just fine, thank you." Marth mumbled his words a little, still drowsy, as he pulled himself out of bed and onto his feet.

"The storm's still going," Worried Minerva, as if Marth wouldn't be able to tell.

"Ah, well, that's to be expected, really. These storms can last quite a while. Still, if you think we ought to be going, than I'm quite willing to." Marth explained as he walked around to the other side of the bed and sat beside Minerva.

Minerva looked out the window again.

"Hmm. I'm not sure that's a possibility. I doubt my wyvern will be able to safely fly in such strong winds. We may be stuck here a while longer." Her voice was calm, but inwardly Minerva was growling at this second delay. She hadn't minded the first delay so much – a long rest in a warm bed had been something she direly needed, and it had only been a delay of some eight hours. This? There was no way of knowing when the wind would let up. It might well be an entire extra day.

"How long do these usually last?" Asked Minerva, "The storms, I mean."

"Usually, only a couple of days, but there are records of it lasting more than a week. I hope everyone back home aren't worrying too much…" Marth didn't sound particularly concerned about the possibility of being stuck here an entire week, but Minerva was aghast.

"A wee- achoo!" Minerva's dismayed exclamation of surprise was cut short by a sudden sneezing fit, "that- achoo!"

"Minerva? Are you feeling well?" Marth, bless his heart, was quite worried. Minerva had written off the languidness plaguing her this morning as merely her needing longer to properly wake up, but it could very well be some kind of sickness. On the other hand, there were other things that could cause her to sneeze, and she would much prefer to believe that it was nothing.

"I'm fine. Just… dust, or something. Surely. More importantly, did you just say that these storms can last a week? Is there even- will the inn's supplies last that long?"

Marth had the gall to laugh. It was not a mocking laugh, it was bright and pleasant, but it was still rather poorly timed.

"Don't worry. There's enough food and candles to see us through, and then some. These storms are normal for this part of Altea, so the people who live here know well enough how and when to prepare. Nothing to worry about!"

Whatever response Minerva might have given was cut off by another sneeze. And then another.

"Are you sure you aren't feeling a little poorly?" Marth questioned.

"I am  _fine_. Now, do you have any spare clothes that would fit me?" Minerva shrugged his hand off and rose to her feet, "I'm afraid mine will need hours of cleaning before th-" Not a second after she had stood up, she was attacked by a sudden rush of dizziness. Minerva clutched her head in her hands and-

"Minerva!"

Her mind blanked. The next thing she knew, she was lying in Marth's arms, just barely off the ground. It didn't take a genius to understand that she had just blacked out.

"Do you think you can stand?" Marth worried.

Minerva made a long, low, groaning sound in response. She had intended for it to be a coherent sentence, but her vocal cords refused to obey her.

"Okay," Said Marth. With much less exertion than might have been expected from his thin frame, Marth lifted Minerva into the air and laid her down on the bed. With the utmost care, he placed her head on the pillows and pulled the blankets over top of her. Minerva tried to protest, but the power of speech hadn't quite returned to her yet.

"You stay there and rest. And try to stay warm as best you can! I will go downstairs and see about getting you some breakfast. I'll be back in but a moment."

Marth found the ground floor still largely in darkness, save for a small light from the kitchen. The other guests, then, had yet to wake.

He made straight for the kitchen, where the innkeeper's wife – Kadienne – was preparing a rather large pot of porridge in preparation for breakfast.

"Good morning!" Marth greeted as he crossed the kitchen threshold.

"Oh, Prince! You're up and about early," came Kadienne's reply, in her lilting accent.

"Habit, I suppose. During the war, there wasn't much time for sleep," was Marth's reply.

"Hm! Well, did you have a good sleep anyway?" Asked Kadienne with an odd twinkle in her eye.

"Ah…" Marth blushed a little, remembering the way it had felt to be held in Minerva's arms, "My rest was… a little troubled, but I slept well for the most part."

Kadienne's face split into a crooked smile.

"Hm, hm, hm! Well then, I'm glad you an' your lady friend had a good night, mm," she said with a wink, "She not up yet?"

"Oh, Minerva was awake before I was, actually. I came down to get breakfast for her."

Oh, breakfast in bed! How  _romantic_ ," cooed Kadienne.

"Oh no no, nothing like that," Marth corrected, quite hastily, "Minerva is feeling unwell this morning, so I told her to stay in bed and rest. Trust me, if she were able to get food for herself right now, she wouldn't be letting me do it."

"Hm!" Kadienne seemed almost disappointed that there wasn't an illicit affair going on under her roof - not that she seemed to entirely believe Marth's protests, either, "Well, porridge'll be ready in just a few. You just go ahead an' sit y'self down and wait, will you?"

"Are you sure? If you want to take a break, I can finish the porridge for y-" Offered Marth, already reaching for the ladle Kadienne was using to stir the pot, only to have his hand swatted away.

"No, no, no, you go sit and wait, your majesty. What kind of person would I be, if I made my prince make breakfast for me?"

"And what kind of prince would I be, if I went back on a deal? I said I would help with the work, in return for room and board."

"Room and board we were perfectly willin' to give for nothing! Sit down!"

Marth, thus chastened, reluctantly did as he was told and sat down on a nearby stool. He had every intention of waiting in silence, feeling that if he wasn't going to help, then he at least should avoid being a distraction, but Kadienne seemed to prefer conversation.

"So who is that lady friend o' yours, anyway? All I know is what Faine's told me, I didn't get a chance t' see her last night."

Marth raised an eyebrow. It hadn't taken long to learn that Kadienne's husband was given to fanciful exaggeration.

"What… exactly did Faine tell you about her? Just as a point of reference, you understand."

"T' hear him tell it, your… what did you say her name was? Minerva?" Kadienne paused just long enough for Marth to nod confirmation before going on, "To hear my Faine tell it, your Minerva's a giant warrior-woman from savage lands, the kind who'd crush your head as soon as look at you. Y'know, the brutish barbarian type."

"Minerva is no barbarian, I can assure you," Marth was amused, if not a little bit offended on Minerva's behalf, by the assumptions Faine had made and passed on to his wife, "and while her country isn't the most hospitable place, it's far from  _savage_. But she is a warrior, yes. The strongest and noblest I know. She fought at my side during the war, and saved my life many a time. Were it not for Princess Minerva's aid, the war might not've been won."

Kadienne's eyes widened.

"Princess?" She gasped.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I hadn't gotten to that yet. Yes, Minerva is crown princess of Macedon."

Kadienne was silent for a moment as she digested that information. Then-

"And there's  _really_  nothing going on between you two? No… scandalous royal affairs?"

"No!" Marth protested.

"And I don't know if I'd go so far as to call Minerva a giant," he went on, quick to change the subject lest he be pressed further, "But she is taller and thewier than I am by no small measure. She is certainly a giant among men, at least."

"Hm hm? So, not just quite a woman, but quite a lot of woman, too!" laughed Kadienne.

"… If you want to put it like that, yes."

"Hm hm hm! Well, I'd love to keep ya a while longer, but the porridge is ready, so you'd better take a bowl up to her majesty."

Kadienne produced a deep bowl from a nearby cupboard, ladled porridge into it, and handed it to Marth, who gratefully accepted it and turned to leave.

"Ah ah ah! You just wait a second, now," Kadienne said, pushing a second bowl of porridge into Marth's free hand, "can't go forgettin' yer own breakfast, your majesty."

"Oh. Yes, thank you," Said Marth, who hadn't so much forgotten his own breakfast as shuffled it to the bottom of his list of priorities.

"I'll be back down in a bit to help with breakfast, once all the others start to wake up," he added a moment later, already halfway out of the room.

"Ah, just git already," Kadienne waved him away, "don't worry too much about that. Spend all the time y' like with Lady Minerva!" And then she disappeared around a corner and out of sight, heading in the direction of the pantry.

Marth, left with no opportunity to respond, simply sighed and continued up the stairs. His feet padded softly as he went, very nearly the only sound that could be heard. The only other, the slight creaking of a floorboard as someone stepped quietly around their room.

Marth sighed, and with his shoulder pushed open the door to the room he and Minerva shared.

On the other side stood Minerva, wearing a too-small blue shirt, too-tight black trousers, and a surprised expression.

She wobbled a little, unsteady on her feet.

"Minerva, " sighed Marth, who was more disappointed than surprised, "you should be resting."

"I find I cannot. Being confined to a bed leaves me ill at ease."

"That's as may be, but being on your feet now will only make things worse in the long run.

"I'm not a child, Marth. I don't need you mothering me."

"… I've brought you breakfast," Marth sighed, "Sit and eat. We'll talk more of this once there is food in our bellies."

"Thank you, but… Oh, very well. Thank you," conceded Minerva. She took a bowl from Marth's hand, and moved to sit down on the edge of the bed. Marth, with his hand now free, stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and followed her.

For a while, they ate in silence. Or Marth did, at least. Minerva made a sort of contented hum after each spoonful and swallowed loudly.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Marth said eventually.

"Mm?" Replied Minerva, "what do you – oh, yes. I'm being impolite, aren't I? I always forget. My apologies."

"No, not at all. In Macedon, it would be more impolite to be silent, wouldn't it? I can hardly fault you for following the customs of your country."

"But I am in Altea, and should do as Alteans do. No?" Minerva's tone had an air of finality to it, so Marth said no more, and silence reigned.

When Minerva at last finished her bow, Marth reached over and scooped it up. With her empty bowl and his in hand, Marth stepped towards the door, and Minerva made to follow him.

Marth stopped where he was.

"Minerva…" he sighed.

"I told you," she replied, "I'm feeling fine now. And no more than you can I lay about all day and be waited on."

Marth pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Right back where we started, are we?"

Minerva narrowed her eyes and said, "I can't just lie around all day. It's something I am just not capable of."

"Have you never been sick before?"

"Of course I have. But I always found something to do with myself. And in any case, I am feeling much better now. Do not make me repeat myself again."

So saying, Minerva fell into a coughing fit.

"Are you… certain?" Asked Marth a few moments later, when Minerva's coughing had subsided.

Minerva, in lieu of an answer, merely glared. She then made once more to leave the room, only to stop no more than two steps further. She clutched her head in her hands, and her already unsteady stance wobbled slightly more.

"Minerva, you can barely stand," said Marth through pursed lips, "No more arguing in circles. You  _must_  rest."

"Only a passing lightheadedness," Minerva assured him.

"No," said Marth, his voice suddenly steel, "the last time you had a 'passing lightheadedness' you fainted dead away."

Minerva narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, but as soon as she opened her mouth to object, Marth interrupted her.

"Bedrest," he said flatly. Then he delicately set the bowls down on the floor, walked over to Minerva, took her by the arm, and pulled her back towards the bed.

"Just the fact that I was able to do that just now is proof enough that you aren't as well as you say. Rest, Minerva. Lest you be too sick to travel when the storm finally clears."

Then, taking Minerva firmly-but-gently by the shoulders, he pushed her down into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Surprised by how little Minerva was resisting, he went on "Just lie down and sleep for now. Okay? If I have to, I'll even tuck you in and kiss you goodnight – no, I'm only joking, I'm quite sure that you are not so childish. If you're feeling better in the afternoon, I'll ask the innkeepers if there might be something for you to help with. Nothing too straining, of course."

"I think… that might be nice…" Minerva mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

It seemed to Marth that getting Minerva off her feet had cracked the brave mask she had been wearing. Robbed of her momentum, her torpor had overtaken her. She was practically alight now with tell-tale signs of drowsiness, and her face had gone red – not, Marth hoped, a sign of fever. In any case, Minerva seemed to have accepted the wisdom of Marth's words, or at least run out of energy to protest, as she wordlessly lay down and pulled the covers around her.

"Ah, one more thing before I leave…"

Marth knelt down and pressed a hand to Minerva's forehead.

"What…?" She gasped, face turning yet more red. Marth, however, did not seem to notice, merely pulling his hand back and regarding it curiously.

"A little warmer than normal but… no fever. That's good. You should be all better in only a day or two," he said after a moment's thought. Then he turned to leave and walked out the door, stopping only to pick up the emptied oatmeal bowls.

"Sleep well, Minerva," he said as he closed the door.

And so Minerva, already edging back towards sleep, was left alone with only the howling of the wind outside, the heavy pounding of the falling rain, and her thoughts.

She dreamt of blue.

It was to the creaking of an opening door that Minerva next woke. A tiny sliver of light from the lamp-lit hallway outside was cast across her face.

She hadn't the slightest idea how long she'd slept, but little seemed to have changed in that time. The weather seemed just as frightful as before, although the clouds were brightened faintly by the sunlight behind them.

Minerva blinked blearily, and attempted to raise her head off the pillow. Her body seemed heavy as lead and she felt like death warmed over, which stymied her efforts. Nonetheless, she was able to turn her gaze towards the door.

There, silhouetted by the light, she could just barely see Marth peeking in. To check whether or not she was awake, she supposed. Well, if she hadn't been before, she certainly was now. Minerva had already been stirring, but the light from the door was what had done it in the end.

"Mmmmm'wake," she mumbled inarticulately.

"I brought you lunch, if you're feeling up to it," said Marth, voice soft and soothing as could be, as he pushed open the door and stepped past, "It's chicken soup. Good for when you're ill, or so my sister always says. Tea, as well."

He set the teacup down on the table, then the soup bowl just beside it, and Minerva could tell even through her stuffy nose that the smell was heavenly. This only made her regret all the more that she did not feel like she had the capacity to eat it at the moment, with her leaden arms and body so fatigued it couldn't even feel hunger.

"How are you feeling? Any better?" Asked Marth, as he deftly seated himself in what little space there was between the very edge of the bed and Minerva's legs.

Minerva narrowed her eyes. She wanted to shout no, to tell him that his well-intentioned advice had only resulted in her getting worse, but her voice just would not do as she willed it. So, instead, she just groaned.

"I see," said Marth simply, and the worst part was that he probably  _had_  divined her full intended meaning from that wordless groan.

"That does happen. Some things get worse before they get better," he sighed and looked out the window, "Like storms, for instance. At any rate, getting some food in your belly might help a little, even if it might not feel like it right now. Please, try to eat, if you can manage it."

Marth had an almost motherly air to him as he fussed, Minerva felt. He was well suited to caring for people, her erratically drifting thoughts concluded. He had the kind of personality that was never happier than when he could help someone, and for those in need he would spare no effort. To an almost smothering extent, at times such as now, but he meant the best and she admired him endlessly for it. Even if it could also try her patience now and again.

With no small degree of effort, Minerva attempted to push herself into a sitting position, using the headboard of the bed as support. In her weakness, she did not make it very far at all, but Marth noticed her struggling and quickly interceded, gently lifting her up.

Minerva's brow creased, ever more frustrated by her own inability.

Marth just smiled, the kind of warm but vaguely artificial smile worn by someone who is not themselves happy, but wants someone else to be.

"Are you feeling comfortable?"

"Nn," grunted Minerva, nodding.

"I'm glad. Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. I'll need to leave again in about half an hour, but I'll check in on you as often as I can, and for the meantime, I'll be right here."

"I…" Minerva began to speak, only for the words to refuse to leave her hoarse throat.

"Try having some tea. I put in quite a bit of honey, so it'll help if your throat's sore."

"Nn," grunted Minerva again, reaching out to take the teacup and saucer. It felt heavy in her hands, and took a little effort to lift, but from there, it was nothing but well-rehearsed routine that she could've done in her sleep, illness or no. She held the saucer in one hand, raised the teacup to her lips with the other, and took delicate sips of the warm drink.

Marth watched her, and thought it was almost a marvel. He had, on more than one occasion, seen Minerva covered in mud and blood – only some of it her own – cutting down countless scores of men and looking as if she were a rampaging war goddess who'd stepped from the pages of a book of ancient myths. And here she was, sick in bed and doing something so unwarlike as drinking tea. The dissonance was almost uncanny.

Minerva placed the teacup back down on its saucer.

"You're… staring," she rasped.

"Oh, I'm just… sorry, it's nothing. What kinds of tea do you usually prefer, by the by? If I can, I'll be sure to prepare some next time. Allowing that we have the same teas here in Altea as in Macedon, of course."

Minerva considered that for a moment.

"Hmm… I'm rather partial to… smoked tea, actually," she replied, her voice coming a little easier, now. She glanced down at the cup of honeyed tea in her hands; it seemed to be working quite quickly.

"I'm… not sure I've heard of that before, actually."

"No, I thought you might not," Minerva sighed, "… I've never seen it outside of Macedon. Whatever breakfast teas you have, then. … With less sugar than this time, I think."

"Very well, I'll remember that. I am curious to know more about that Macedonian tea you mentioned, though. In general, I'd love to learn more about your country, actually. It's a very different place from Altea, and I think it would be good to learn just how so."

"I don't actually know anything about how smoked tea is made, I'm afraid… although I presume it involves smoke somehow. I'll ask Maria, I think she knows. But if you want to talk about… all the ways our countries are different, we'll be here for days."

Marth glanced at the window, "We have the time, it seems."

Minerva laughed at that, a deep, throaty laugh that quickly turned into a coughing fit.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I don't mean to push you," Marth apologized, "you shouldn't speak if you're not feeling up to it."

Minerva shook her head, "It's fine. I-" But she was interrupted by another coughing fit.

Marth frowned, and Minerva did not say anything more.

Eventually, Minerva finished her tea, and lay the cup down on the bedside table. She eyed the soup next to it with some measure of interest, suddenly aware of how empty her stomach was. Perhaps she might be able to eat something after all.

"Did you… make this yourself?"

"I did. I'm sorry, I've still got some ways to go before I'm much of a chef, I'm afraid. I thought I did alright, but if it's not to your taste, I can go and find something else…?"

"No. This is fine." Yes, Minerva would most certainly be able to eat after all.

And so she took the bowl into her hands and began to eat. The taste was nothing special, but the warmth was delightful, and it seemed to be just what her sickly body needed. With each spoonful, she could feel herself getting a little better. She almost fancied she could taste the love Marth put into it – a thought that nearly made her slam her head against a wall out of frustration, far more suitable for a lovestruck child than for the Red Dragoon.

As it was, she was unable to resist scowling and grinding her teeth together.

"Is it that bad?" Asked Marth, dashing any hopes Minerva had of him failing to notice.

"No, of course not. It's very good. I'm frustrated with myself, more than anything," she rasped.

Marth sighed. "You know, I don't recall you ever being such a bad patient when you were wounded."

Minerva avoided his eyes. While he'd thankfully not been able to divine the true source of her frustration, she had no desire to go into that subject, either.

"… Felled in battle is one thing. … Felled by a cold is another." Said Minerva simply.

"Not so much as you seem to think," noted Marth.

"Hmm," grunted Minerva as she returned her attention to her bowl of soup.

Sensing that he wasn't going to be able to get any more out of her, Marth sighed and shook his head a little, and the two of them lapsed back into silence.

"I'd better get going," he said eventually, "I'd love to stay by your side, but there's other things that need to be done."

"Hold up, I'll go with you," said Minerva, setting her now empty bowl aside.

"No, you won't. You need to keep resting, Minerva."

"I'm feeling much better."

"Act tough all you like, Minerva. You look and sound like death, and a minute ago you were barely strong enough to lift a teacup. With your health as weak as it is, you should keep resting."

Minerva looked hurt by that comment. She cast her gaze downwards, staring at her fist as she clenched and unclenched it. Her arm shook a little from the effort of raising it, and seeing that only seemed to widen whatever wound Marth had inadvertently opened.

"Minerva? Are you-"

"It's nothing," Minerva was quick to cut him off, "nothing at all. I think I'll... sleep a while longer. Or something like that. You go on." And so saying, she turned away and lay back down.

"Minerva…"

"It really is nothing."

"You can talk to me, you know. About whatever it is that's bothering you."

He received no response.

He stepped back towards the bed, and gingerly laid a hand on Minerva's shoulder. She slapped it away without so much as turning to look.

"Minerva… Please. I can't stand to think I might've hurt you somehow. Let me make that right."

The silence hung heavy in the air.

* * *

It was dark when Marth returned, the lamp having long since burned out and the night having long since fallen – difficult as it was to tell through the storm clouds. Minerva was quite awake even at this hour and even in her current state. Dreary, drowsy, and not entirely clear-headed, but well awake and standing at the window, staring out into the rain.

The door creaked quite loudly as Marth came into the room.

"Minerva?"

"Prince Marth, I… wanted to apologise for my churlishness earlier. And I wanted to explain-"

"Minerva, there's no reason for you to-"

"No, listen. Prince Marth… the might that you admire so much is  _all_  that I have. There is nothing more to me than strength of arms. So when I am brought low in battle… I can live with that. Knowing that I fell doing everything that I was capable of. Knowing that I used my only virtue in the name of something greater. In…" She said haltingly, "the name of your virtues. I know that I can rest and heal and return to the battlefield. Brought low by illness like this… I feel powerless. This is something almost random, something I cannot truly control, that robs me of that one virtue. And I… cannot stand that. When you reminded me of how weak I was earlier, it cut me far deeper than you could possibly have expected."

"All this," Marth sighed, "over a simple cold. Minerva… I'm sorry. If I-"

"You couldn't've known. I don't blame you. I could never." Said Minerva softly.

"Minerva…"

"It's getting late. We should be getting to sleep, don't you think? I'm not sure I could stay awake much longer if I tried."

"Wait!" As Minerva moved towards the bed, Marth rushed to stop her. He stepped in front of her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eyes.

"Princess Minerva, I have more to say then just an apology. Minerva… you can't say those kinds of things about yourself. I know you can't bring yourself to see it, but you're so much more than just a warrior. I know you don't think you have any worth outside of the battlefield, but you're much more gentle and kind than you think. And you've seen the loyalty the Whitewings have for you – you're a born leader, too. You will be the greatest queen Macedon, this whole continent even, has ever seen, I swear on my life. Minerva.  _Minerva_. I…" and the words were on the tip of his tongue, burning in his mouth, trying to force their way out as if they had a will of their own, "… You're such a wonderful person. I wish you could see that as clearly as I do… and as the Whitewings do, and as your people do," but no, he hadn't the courage to say them. Only three simple words, but so far beyond his ability to speak.

"And… it's okay to be weak sometimes. It's okay to not be in control sometimes. Nobody, not even you, can be so unbreakable a pillar. A little bad luck won't be the end of you. And you know, you got sick by being out in the cold and rain to save me, so I think that's about the same as a wound in battle. Whether it be a cut or a cold, sometimes you just have to put yourself forward and take what comes."

In response, Minerva only stared silently back at him.

"… Fool," she said eventually, smiling bitterly. She leaned forwards, hesitating a little, and kissed him. It was momentary and mostly chaste and both their faces turned as bright and scarlet as Minerva's hair.

Minerva turned away. Marth slowly, as if in a daze, reached up and placed a hand on his mouth.

"M- Mi- Min… y- you-" he stuttered.

"What?" Said Minerva, in a tone of forced flatness that still wavered a little, "you did offer. Earlier. When you were trying to make me rest this morning. You said you'd kiss me goodnight, if you had to."

"But I…"

"Is that so strange?" Minerva continued, her voice unchanged, "we were discussing the differences in our cultures earlier. In Macedon, this sort of thing wouldn't be that far out of the ordinary."

"Is- is that so? I- I see…" Minerva, facing away as she was, did not see the expression of disappointment that Marth valiantly tried and failed to keep off his face.

And then neither said anything at all, falling together into an uncomfortable silence. They climbed into bed, carefully keeping as far from the other as comfortably possible and both keeping their backs to each other.

And they both lay awake with troubled and troubling thoughts long into the night and long after each had assumed the other had fallen asleep.

Marth had the same thoughts as the night before, thrown into even greater turmoil by the events of the day. His anxieties spun in a widening gyre, the worries of a young man in love, fearful of the pain of rejection; never bitten yet thrice shy. And Minerva's reaction to the kiss, as he had seen it, only led him to believe all the more that she would not return his affection. A platonic gesture, that's all it had been. And so his worries ate away at him until finally the blessed darkness claimed him.

Minerva raged internally. Idiot, she berated herself, fool! Overstepping her boundaries like that in a moment of impulsive weakness. And it had been… so wonderful. And it shouldn't have happened at all. And then she had lied, seized on the first excuse she had come up with to wave away her folly. To save herself from having to face her fears, she had told Marth of a tradition that did not exist. She was, or so she felt, not only a thoughtless, impetuous, emotional fool, but a coward, too! And then, as sleep claimed her, her last thought was of Marth's words:  _sometimes you just have to put yourself forward and take what comes_.

* * *

Elsewhere, the innkeeper and his wife shared a conspiratorial smile as they themselves prepared to sleep. Together, they had come to suspect certain things about the Prince of Altea and Princess of Macedon that were not quite true – as much as both royals wished they were.


End file.
